


Love's Greatest Deceivers

by AceMoppet



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Honestly this isn't even angsty, Humor, I just want shenanigans, Light Angst, Multi, Other, Post-Canon, They 'pretend' to be married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceMoppet/pseuds/AceMoppet
Summary: “But-“ Aziraphale’s mind races, and ends, as it always does, back to their best friend. “What about Crowley?”Gabriel frowns. “The demon? What about him?”“Crowley survived too,” Aziraphale says slowly. Their idea is just coming together, but if they can make the archangels believe… “And I know he didn’t do so through human magic.”“Oh?” Sandalphon says. “Know him well, do you?”“Oh- well-” Aziraphale stutters grandly, pretending to be taken off guard. They close their hand over their ring, hiding it in a way that would look dramatic to any human, but only looks sneaky, subtle, and suspicious to the celestial beings in front of them.“Oh God,” Gabriel says, voice faint with horror. “They’re married!”Or: What's an angel and a demon to do when Heaven comes knocking on their door? 'Fake' a marriage, of course!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 126





	1. In Which, Dear Reader, We Enter a Plot That Would Make Shakespeare Proud

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Ace here, back with a new fic; I'm really excited for this one! I love the concept of fake relationship fic, and I wanted to try my hand at it. 
> 
> Even though this is a fake relationship fic, don't expect too much angst here! One of the things I want to emphasize here is that, while in this story Crowley and Aziraphale do like each other romantically, they are first and foremost best friends. So most of what they do here will be bastardly shenanigans, you know, as you do with your best friend.
> 
> If you're looking for a more angsty tone, I recommend checking out LollipopCop's Pretend for Me and bisasterdi's Faking It. Both are so, *so* good!
> 
> If you like this, leave a comment or a kudos! Enjoy the fic!

Aziraphale has _just_ managed to organize their Austen collection when they hear the faint bell-like tones announcing the presence of a supernatural entity.

_Ah,_ they smile, straightening out their coat delightedly. _He’s early._

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, ducking around the corner. “What a sur-oh.”

“Expecting someone else, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tilts their chin up. “Gabriel. Sandalphon.” The two angels smile wider, menacing and shark-like. Sandalphon even gives a sarcastic wave, that cheeky little- oooh Aziraphale will not _think_ that word! 

They clear their throat. “I thought it was understood that I was to be left alone?”

“Careful, Aziraphale,” Gabriel tuts. “Statements like that might make us think you don’t miss Heaven!”

_I don’t,_ they nearly bite out. Instead they stay silent and raise an eyebrow. Gone is the affable, almost embarrassed smile they would’ve given the two archangels in front of them, absent are the stuttering apologies that used to fall from their lips like rain. Aziraphale owes them nothing, not when they tried to kill everything and everyone they love for no other reason than for a foolish war. 

They see the way the archangels shift, shoe-to-shoe, and smile.

They may be soft and friendly, but those weren’t the reasons they were made the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

“I’ll just uh, cut to the chase,” Gabriel says, clearly uncomfortable.

Aziraphale nods, sharp. “Please.”

“Right, well-” Gabriel sighs and claps his hands. “That little stunt you pulled with the Hellfire- we need to know how you did that.”

Technically speaking, Aziraphale doesn’t need blood to function, which is a good thing, because it freezes with Gabriel’s words and clings to their brittle bones like frost. “I’m immune to it,” they say, barely feeling their lips move. “It’s really quite simple.”

“Yes, yes, we know you’re _immune_ to it,” he says, waving his hand irreverently. His demeanor becomes bolder, somehow pinpointing Aziraphale’s weakness and honing in on it. “What we’d like to know is _how.”_

“Well,” Aziraphale hedges, licking their lips nervously, “it could be my- oh, my time here on Earth? I’m not quite sure-”

“I don’t think you’re being honest, Aziraphale. How about you, Sandalphon?”

“No,” Sandalphon says. His grin grows wider, gold tooth glinting maliciously. “I don’t think so, either.”

_Sh- f- oh,_ **_bugger it all._ **

“Well, you can think what you want,” Aziraphale says, trying to gain back the ground they lost. Confidence keeps bleeding out of them like a vicious head wound, however, and they fumble at odds and ends to keep up with the archangels and their shit-eating grins. “But really, that is the most likely reason-”

“Very well,” Gabriel says magnanimously, spreading his hands. “If that’s the way you want to put it. Maybe you did survive because of your time on Earth. But here’s the thing: we don’t think you actually have immunity.”

_Shit._ “W-what do you mean?” Aziraphale says, somehow keeping their voice calm, if not entirely even. “You saw me go into the hellfire, and it _was_ hellfire- carried up by a demon of hell, nonetheless!”

“Oh, we know,” Sandalphon says. He takes a step forward, and Aziraphale has to resist the urge to take a step back in response. “But we’ve been going back through the Earth observation files, and we’ve found something… interesting.”

Aziraphale has never really thought about their superfluous heartbeat, but they feel its absence like a knife when it stops as Sandalphon brings out a file full of photos. _The switch in the park,_ they think somewhat hysterically, _oh God, oh God, oh God they_ **_know-_ **

Sandalphon slaps the file onto the desk, and the pictures spill out. Aziraphale blinks- they’re… holding Harry the Rabbit?

“You’ve been playing around with human magic,” Sandalphon proclaims. He smiles smugly and clasps his hands behind his back. “Well, it’s not really magic, of course. More misdirection than anything.”

“And that’s how we think you survived the execution,” Gabriel says, clapping sarcastically. “Really have to hand it to you, Aziraphale- we were all fooled by that. Took us _months_ to figure out your little trick.”

_More like years,_ Aziraphale thinks, dazed. “I’m- I’m sorry _what?”_

“Come on, Aziraphale,” Gabriel scoffs. “Don’t play dumb. You used human sleight of hand to make us think you could survive hellfire- it was really a risky move, but you had us all convinced for a while.”

“No longer, though,” Sandalphon pipes up. His chest puffs out pompously. “Really, it was quite stupid to even attempt it- everyone knows an angel should die in hellfire.”

“You’ve had a good run, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. He waves a piece of paper, most likely an execution notice, in front of them. “But it’s time to come back up for a redo. You _were_ supposed to be made extinct, after all.”

“But-“ Aziraphale’s mind races, and ends, as it always does, back to their best friend. “What about Crowley?”

Gabriel frowns. “The demon? What about him?”

Desperately, Aziraphale casts their mind about, grappling for the thread of an idea. They twist their hands tight, tight, _tight,_ until they feel the sharp edges of their ring dig into the tender flesh at their palm-

Hang on.

Aziraphale can’t exactly look at their ring right in front of the archangels- even if it is a Heavenly signet ring and, thankfully, not one that Crowley gave them. Still, as they turn the ring round and round and round their finger, they feel a plan forming.

“Crowley survived too,” Aziraphale says slowly. Their idea is just coming together, but if they can make the archangels believe… “And I know he didn’t do so through human magic.”

“Oh?” Sandalphon says. “Know him well, do you?”

“Oh- well-” Aziraphale stutters grandly, pretending to be taken off guard. They close their hand over their ring, hiding it in a way that would look dramatic to any human, but only looks sneaky, subtle, and suspicious to the celestial beings in front of them.

“Oh God,” Gabriel says, voice faint with horror. “They’re married!”

_Bingo._

They stutter a series of denials, but a Gabriel with a sense that Aziraphale has sinned has all the determination of a river rushing to the sea, and there’s no stopping him now. “You! First the hellfire, and now this?”

Not one to miss being pedantic (or a bastard, as Crowley would say), Aziraphale says, “Well, technically it would be the marriage first, not the hellfire.”

“Shut up!” Gabriel says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Sandalphon looks on in disgust. “Ugh,” he says. “So _that’s_ how you survived. Through your… _fraternization.”_

“Oh, certainly not!” Aziraphale objects heartily; Crowley has long since been more than a mere fraternization to them. “Marriage is a step above fraternization, I should think.”

They have to bite the inside of their cheek to keep from laughing at their incredulous expressions. “Not the point, sunshine!” Gabriel snaps. “Not the fucking point! The point is that you, Aziraphale, are shacking up with a demon!”

“I wonder that She hasn’t made you fall yet,” Sandalphon remarks.

_Oh._ Admittedly, they’ve been worrying about that too… but they take comfort in the fact that they haven’t Fallen. Surely if they were still part of the Host, then She couldn’t think that being with Crowley would be a sin.

Heartened by that, Aziraphale waves away Sandalphon’s words. “It is your prerogative to keep wondering, if you wish,” they say, tugging their waistcoat. “However, I do believe I was about to go meet my husband, so if you would-”

“We don’t believe you.”

They stop in their tracks. “What?”

“You think we’re stupid, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asks, laughing. He pulls at the frayed edges of his composure, hiding the evidence of his reactions beneath the thin veneer of a smug smile. “Ha! You’ve got some nerve lying like that, but I guess you’ve gone more native than we thought you did.”

They can’t believe it. After all this time of stretching the truth, bending the truth, and sometimes outright lying, _this_ is the one time they choose not to believe them? Granted, Aziraphale can see how the claim could be considered a bit outlandish, given both of their backgrounds, but still...

They have to fix this.

“Hold on,” they say. “I am _not_ lying! Not about this! Crowley and I are married-”

“Sure, sure,” Gabriel chuckles. Behind him, Sandalphon snickers, his gold tooth glinting. “You know what, how about we let you prove it?”

Aziraphale blinks. Then blinks again. “I’m-I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Prove it,” Gabriel repeats, crossing his arms smugly. “We’ll pop into your bookshop periodically to see if you two really are married, and if you’re not, then we’ll know you’re lying. About being married _and_ your supposed ‘immunity’ to hellfire.”

_That’s a rather gross invasion of privacy,_ Aziraphale thinks. Aloud, they say, “I don’t suppose you’d really rather just take my word for it? Instead of popping in at random intervals when we could be doing… anything…”

Gabriel blinks, smile dropping. “Anything?” he parrots, confused.

Aziraphale purses their lips and only barely keeps from rolling their eyes. “Sex,” they say bluntly, watching Gabriel’s face go slack with shock while Sandalphon’s screws up in disgust. “What if we were having sex when you walked in?”

Not that they ever would. Crowley and Aziraphale agree on many things when you chucked Hell and Heaven out the window, and one of the things they both agreed on was that neither of them particularly liked sex.

“Waste of time, if you ask me,” Crowley had said one night, sniffing. “Could do so much more tempting in the time it takes to do ‘the do’.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale had said, absentmindedly clinking their new ring against their wine glass. And that was all that was said on the matter.

“I’m assuming you wouldn’t want to see that?” they press, trying to tamp down their amusement at the miraculously garish face journeys the archangels were currently engaged in.

Idly, they wish for a camera; Crowley would have _loved_ to see this.

Gabriel snarls. “Fine,” he spits out. “We’ll monitor you both in public. There’s no way you can keep up this farce for long. One day, you’ll stumble.”

With that, he sweeps out the door, banging it after him. Aziraphale has no time to protest the treatment of their bookshop, because Sandalphon steps up to them next. “And when you do stumble,” he says menacingly, “we’ll be there.”

Then he walks out- same as Gabriel had, albeit with less door-slamming- and Aziraphale is left alone.

That is, until Crowley walks in, not five minutes later.

“Angel!” he says, face frantic. “I just saw Gabriel around the corner, we have to-”

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale says, finally coming down from the shock of the visit. “It’s alright, I know. They were here not a moment ago.”

_“Shit,”_ Crowley curses. “What did they do? Did they hurt you? If they did, I swear I’ll-”

“Nothing so drastic as that my dear,” Aziraphale reassures. Poor Crowley: he often gets so stringy with nerves when it comes to Aziraphale’s safety. However, he need not worry too much; Aziraphale has the beginnings of a solution forming in their mind. “I’m afraid we can’t go out tonight, however; we need to plan.”

“Plan?” Crowley says, brows furrowed. “Plan for what?”

_Ah, here’s the bad part._ Aziraphale straightens their shoulders and takes a deep breath. “Heaven believes that we were able to survive our executions because of our marital status.”

Crowley’s eyes bulge. “Our _wot?”_

“Marital status,” Aziraphale repeats. “However, Gabriel is… skeptical, to say the least. He says we shall be monitored in public until- well, he didn’t actually say until when, but I assume it’s until he’s satisfied. Therefore, we need to plan.”

Seconds pass. Aziraphale sees the way Crowley’s brain takes the situation in, for once slowing down to make sure he understands everything. Finally, he straightens up. “Right.” Crowley sniffs, a determined look settling on his face. Oh, how Aziraphale _loves_ him. “Backroom, then?”

“Yes, though before you go… do you have our most recent marriage certificate, or did I take it this time?”


	2. In Which, Dear Reader, We Learn the Extent of Aziraphale’s Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if we kiss?”

Let us step aside, dear reader, and imagine, just for a moment, what it must be like to be an immortal angel with time as your only constant. Well, time, and perhaps the fact that you have an equally immortal best friend who comes from Hell. Imagine the capers you both get up to, laughing and screaming throughout the ages as the years pass and the planet turns. Imagine the revelry, the secrecy, the revelry in secrecy and what have you.

Of course, what with the both of you being from opposite sides, all this must be done under the veneer of hatred, must be explained away to superiors as “thwarting the enemy.” Thus, your capers are severely limited, and you can only see your best friend perhaps once a century, and then only for a little bit before getting down to business.

So then imagine, dear reader, sitting across from your best friend as you both drink the night away after having seen the latest hit, _Hamlet_. You admire her, secretly of course, as she throws back a swig of her drink and kvetches away. She laments on how little you two get to meet, and you agree with her, but “really, Crowley, what can be done?”

There’s silence as you finish your wine. Idly, you wonder if you should go for another glass, until your best friend pipes up with an absolutely outrageous idea.

“What if we got married?”

Imagine then, dear reader, the ferocity of the “no!” that bursts from your lips, just enough to hide the ferocity of the “yes, oh yes, yes, _yes!”_ that screams in your heart.

You see your best friend flinch away, and you wince and try to soften the blow. “You _know_ we can’t be seen together like that, my dear. What- what even brought it up?”

“N- well, ok, just think about it?” She sits up, swinging her legs to the floor. “If we got married, we could see each other more often! And-and it could help with The Arrangement too because I could wile and you could thwart and we could do bigger projects.”

Despite yourself, you are intrigued. “Like?”

“Like, hm, like that time during the Medieval Era-”

“After Arthur?”

“Yeah, when I was a lady in court and you were a knight, remember?”

Of course you do; that was the longest stretch of time you’d ever been in each other’s company.

“Imagine what good you could have gotten up to if we’d been married. You wouldn’t have had people going around trying to find you a bride, and there would have been so many more people you could have influenced just through the sheer status of being married.”

She has a point. “What about you?” you point out.

She shrugs. “Same thing, really. No one would have been heckling me to find a husband, and I could have spent more time wiling. Which, you would have then go on to thwart I guess.”

You nod, trying to see how that would be applicable now. “So,” you say, sitting up a bit more, “you say that if we- if we _marry_ …”

“... we could do more of our work, yes,” she finishes. “Think about it, angel-” and oh, dear reader, you _do_ love it when she calls you that, all sweet and soft, “-humans place so much value on marital status. If we were married, we won’t have to deal with them matchmaking us anymore.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you say. But as always, it comes back to your sides. “What about our superiors? What would we say if they caught us?”

Silence. You can see the way her mind, her brilliant, sharp mind, takes your questions and twists them in her head like the Rubik’s Cube that hasn’t been invented yet. Your heart drops as the moments pass and no answer is forthcoming. “My dear, perhaps it’s too dangerous-”

“No!” she cries, surprising you with her desperation. “No no, we can definitely do it! Uh, if we get caught, we can just, you know, say we’re taking advantage of each other and gathering intel about the other side! It’s just a human ritual, after all, means nothing to us after all!”

It’s a weak excuse. You can see it’s a weak excuse, but you can also see the desperation behind her shaded eyes and the want in the way she leans in towards you, begging you to please, _please_ accept.

And the thing is, dear reader, you’re tired. Tired of holding back, of resigning yourself to only see her once in a hundred years, maybe even less if the fear of getting caught becomes particularly potent during that time. You want to be with her more than the concept of want itself, and not even being an angel could keep you away from her forever.

“Alright, Crowley,” you say finally, heart thumping at the sight of her brilliant smile. “Alright.”

* * *

Back, in the present day, Crowley shakes his head. “I have it, angel,” -it being their most recent marriage certificate- “but it’s back at my flat. Why?”

“We may need it,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve convinced the archangels not to pop in on us when we’re indoors-”

“Ah,” Crowley says, smirking slowly. “They think I’m going to ravish you, that it?”

Aziraphale huffs. “Perhaps they believe _I’m_ going to ravish _you._ ”

“Couldn’t if you tried, angel.”

“Neither of us could, my dear, we don’t like it enough to do so. Anyways, that is not the point. The point is-”

“-we have to act like a married couple, right?” Crowley sniffs. “Should be easy enough. We’ve done it many times now.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale admits. “But it’s the angels. They’re going to want to see… a bit more than humans usually want to. A little bit over-the-top, if you will.”

“Over-the-top, eh?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Normal grade marriage isn’t enough for them?”

“My dear, this is Heaven,” Aziraphale says wryly. “I don’t believe they’ve ever _seen_ a normal grade marriage.”

Crowley opens his mouth then closes it and shrugs. “Fair point. But we can’t go too over-the-top, or the humans will get suspicious.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale says, “And I’m not certain you could pull it off either; you’d kvetch too much.”

“Oi!” Crowley protests, glaring at them through his glasses. “Like you don’t do your own, what did you call it? _Kvetching.”_

“Of course I don’t,” Aziraphale says, beaming like a bastard.

“Ngh- y- oh you-”

“In any case,” Aziraphale says, interrupting Crowley’s riveting spiel of stuttering, “You’re right, we shouldn’t go too over-the-top. But we can’t just act as we normally do.”

“We could hold hands more?” Crowley offers. “I could hold open doors for you.”

Aziraphale shakes their head. “That’s good, but I’m afraid that might not be enough.”

They lapse into contemplative silence. The muffled sounds of London traffic take over the spaces of the bookshop, lending their thoughts an absent-minded soundtrack.

_What to do,_ Aziraphale thinks, fiddling with the frayed edge of their waistcoat. What to do that they haven’t already done before? How to show love to beings who didn’t and most likely never did understand what it was in the first place?

They’re focused so hard on this line of thought they almost don’t hear Crowley speak.

“-ss?”

“I’m sorry dear, I was rather lost in thought. What did you say?”

Crowley’s face is really rather red, Aziraphale thinks as they watch Crowley splutter. Idly, they wonder if the bookshop has become too hot for the cold-blooded demon, and they go to turn down the temperature just a bit before Crowley blurts out, “What if we kiss?”

Aziraphale stops, opens their mouth to spit out a hasty refusal, and closes it again.

_What if we kiss?_

On one hand, it could be the very thing they need to ward off the archangels. Gabriel and Sandalphon were already disgusted by the mere idea that Aziraphale could tolerate Crowley’s presence- as if Crowley was like the sub-standard tea Aziraphale had to drink that one time he had to fly out to the Americas, and not, as the kids say, a full three-course meal- this would just push them over the metaphorical edge.

On the other…

“We don’t have any practice, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, wringing their hands. “It won’t look natural.”

“We uh-” Crowley licks his lips and coughs. “We could uh, practice here? Where they won’t see us?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, nodding decisively. “Then that could work.”

“Great,” Crowley says, nodding jerkily. “Uh, tickety-boo.”

How curious, Aziraphale thinks, tracing the blush on Crowley’s face. If they didn’t know any better, they’d almost think that Crowley- that Crowley still feels for them. Just a tad bit.

They shake that thought away. It’s been not an inconsiderate amount of time since the failed Apocalypse- two years, ten months, and a day to be precise- and Crowley, speed-demon that he is, hadn’t made a single move.

Aziraphale had tried on their own, of course. Perhaps Crowley had merely wanted them to make the first move. But even when they went on their first picnic together two summers back, or when Aziraphale had taken him to his favorite Indian place for Valentine’s Day, or even when they’d hinted at wanting to move out of the city together… Crowley had said nothing.

Or well, he’d said plenty- like “Wonder what would happen if I throw my shoe at that duck?” (the picnic, and the duck dodged the shoe and then went for Crowley’s head), and “I’ll take the spiciest dish you’ve got!” (the Indian place, and he’d gotten the _worst_ tummy-ache afterwards), and “Only if we’re not moving to Tadfield,” (the moving out, and Aziraphale was quite in agreement with him). But none of the things he said ever hinted or even implied that he’d want a romantic relationship like that.

And so Aziraphale had accepted- well, had mostly accepted- that Crowley had moved on years back, and now only considered them a good friend.

Not to say that they’re not okay with that! Aziraphale had wanted for so long to just be able to say they were Crowley’s best friend without the threat of either of their sides hanging over them like faulty chandeliers. To have that luxury now is far more than they’d ever dreamed of having, and they are mostly content with that.

Mostly.

But that’s not the point right now. The point very much is-

“Practice.”

Crowley’s head shoots up. “W-wot?”

Oh, they’d spoken out loud. “We should- ah, we should practice,” Aziraphale says, trying, and possibly failing, to keep from blushing. “Perhaps now would be a good time?”

Crowley blinks. _“Now?”_

“I mean,” Aziraphale’s hands flutter. “You are already here, and we don’t know when they might decide to pop in on us, as it were…”

_Oh dear,_ Aziraphale thinks, heart sinking as they take in the way Crowley’s gone utterly blank. _I might have made a mistake._

They lick their lips, shaky. “N-Never mind that- you’re right, we can practice another time-”

“Uh, I didn’t say that!” Crowley lurches forward, hands hovering over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I was just. Surprised, y’know?”

Aziraphale looks up, heart stuttering. Crowley’s face is close, _so_ close, to theirs. His breaths are soft little puffs that make their lips tingle, and the tip of his nose brushes ever so lightly against theirs. It’s… almost intoxicating.

His eyes, so gold and _perfect,_ search theirs. “Is this ok?” he whispers.

Aziraphale swallows. “Yes.” Then they lean up and kiss him.

Thousands of years of dreaming could never have prepared them for the softness of Crowley’s lips, for the way they give under theirs oh so wonderfully. The gasp that tumbles from his mouth tastes sweet, like apples.

It tastes like Eden, like six thousand years of wondering and wanting, and Aziraphale is hit with the realization that they have so, _so_ much they could lose.

Suddenly, Aziraphale feels almost gutted by the need to touch his cheek, run their fingers through his hair, to pull him close in a never-ending hug. They can at least do one of that, so they tear away to place a fierce kiss to Crowley’s forehead and pull him into a hug.

Crowley whines. “Angel?” he asks, sounding so dazed and confused that Aziraphale almost wants to weep.

_I will protect you,_ they think instead, feeling the promise click into their soul like a puzzle piece. _I_ **_will_ ** _protect you._

Crowley’s hands come up to awkwardly pat at their back. They can’t really fault him for that; they only started hugging six months back, and this is the longest hug they’ve ever shared. “Not that I don’t like this, angel, but weren’t we supposed to be practicing?”

Right. They should get back to that. And yet… this seems far more intimate than a kiss born of facetiousness ever could be. Perhaps if the kiss had meaning to it, Aziraphale may have preferred it.

But it’s only here they can feel the beat of Crowley’s heart, always a tad too fast to ever be considered human. It’s only here they can smell the tinge of hellish sulfur that lies beneath his absurdly expensive cologne.

It’s only here they can relax, the only place they’d ever allow themselves to.

“In a bit, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “If that’s alright with you?”

They feel Crowley stiffen, but before they can pull away, Crowley sighs and sags into their arms. “Alright, angel,” Crowley whispers, arms tightening around them. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know, there actually wasn’t going to be a hug at the end? They were just supposed to kiss- but my brain went “what the fuck’s a kiss bitch I’ll kill you-”
> 
> So you know. Hug time.


	3. In Which, Dear Reader, We Have Our First Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first place they run into one of Heaven’s own is St. James Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, y'all! I had to finish up an Econ Paper- hopefully the longer chapter helps to make up for that!
> 
> As always, leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it! Also, there's a cookie for those who spot the cameo- hint: they're from the last fandom I was in.

Later, they hash out the details of their plan. For the most part, they’ll tell the truth- they’ve been married for over 400 years, they get remarried about every 50-70 years, and they started doing it as an excuse to help each other out.

And then of course, there are the lies, less numerous, but no less devastating- they’re in love, and their marriage let them survive their executions.

“You still have the ring I gave you, right?” Crowley asks, shrugging on his jacket.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says. _ I have every ring you ever gave me,  _ they do not say.

“Good, great.” He stops and adjusts his shades. “Um, tomorrow, then?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Tomorrow is perfectly fine. Is brunch alright? There’s a lovely little cafe near St. James that just opened up.”

“Sure,” Crowley says agreeably. The sight of his easy smile suddenly warms Aziraphale- how can anything go wrong with Crowley smiling at them like that, sweet and free?

“Do you know, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, handing the demon his keys, “I do feel a bit excited over this.”

“No shit, angel,” Crowley says, smile turning into a grin. “You were always the first one in line to see ol’ Will’s plays, and don’t think I didn’t notice that you were more gung-ho about our little stunt a couple years back than I was.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I was merely getting into character!”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley’s grin gains a teasing edge, and he leans closer. “What about ‘Brother Francis’?”

Aziraphale huffs and shoots him a glare. “I seem to recall  _ you  _ getting, how did you say it,  _ gung-ho  _ about your little disguise as well!”

“Ah,” Crowley says, faux-wisely, “but you see, I’m a  _ demon.  _ Practically made for trickery, I am.”

“Are- are you implying that acting is somehow  _ demonic?”  _ Aziraphale splutters. “Dear boy!”

“Are you saying it’s not?” Crowley counters. “Look at Hollywood! Look at all the wonderful little scandals those starlets get into!”

Aziraphale frowns. “I thought you said you had nothing to do with Hollywood?”

“Er, well no-”

“So then technically, Hollywood is entirely  _ human?” _

“Well,  _ yes,”  _ Crowley says, sounding so put out Aziraphale has to bite back a laugh. “But! It’s still evil! So it’s  _ still  _ technically not proper for an angel to be  _ acting  _ upon.”

Aziraphale very firmly puts that dreadful wordplay aside and takes Crowley’s hand. This is another thing they do now, two years after the end of the world- reaching for the other is natural now, soft and comforting.

“Oh?” Crowley says. He laughs and squeezes their hand. “What’s this about, angel?” 

Aziraphale sighs and clasps his hand between their other hand. “My dear,” they say softly, “There are many things I’ve done here that are not quite proper for an angel.”

They look into Crowley’s eyes. “I regret none of them.”

Crowley swallows. “You sound very sure about that, angel,” he says, soft and hoarse. There’s a forced, teasing edge to his voice, as if he’s trying to distract someone. “You sure there’s nothing you regret? Absolutely nothing?”

Aziraphale knows full well that Crowley often resorts to humor in emotional moments- the poor boy never did learn how to cope with all of that. Many times, they’ve fallen back on that- a healthy amount of emotional distance is key when you’re an angel with a demonic best friend who you have to hide like they’re the world’s first dirty secret.

They don’t have to do that anymore.

Without looking away, they squeeze Crowley’s hand. “Absolutely nothing.”

* * *

The first place they run into one of Heaven’s own is St. James Park.

It’s a perfectly lovely day, and many people, Aziraphale and Crowley included, have obviously decided the only good thing to do is to go out and enjoy it.

“What a pleasant day,” Aziraphale says, tossing some peas to the ducks in front of them. They’re absolutely giddy with the love coming from the people around them, good will and adoration spooling through the air like pearl smoke.

Crowley hums, seemingly unaffected, but Aziraphale sees how his usually tense shoulders lie relaxed, how he blinks ever so slowly, as if savoring the moment. He tilts his head and pokes his tongue out slightly, a gesture so endearing it makes Aziraphale want to melt.

“Less pollution, even after two years,” Crowley comments, licking his lips. “Kid did a good job redoing the world.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says, eyes still tracing Crowley’s face. Thankfully, they manage to look away just as Crowley turns to them.

“When do you think they’ll show up?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not sure,” they murmur, suddenly perturbed. “Perhaps they won’t show up at all?”

“Why?” Crowley fidgets with the popsicle stick in his hand before flinging it at a trash can. It lands just outside it, and by the way Crowley smirks, Aziraphale realizes (with no small amount of exasperation) it was intentional. With a sigh, they wave a hand and the stick disappears into the bin. 

“Tsk,” Crowley says, frowning. “Spoilsport.”

“Littering is beneath you, my dear.” They toss another handful of peas to the ducks. “In answer to your question, I suppose they could take the easy way and just watch us through the surveillance cameras.”

“The surveill-” Crowley stutters. “Wha- you guys have those? Why?!”

“To watch over everyone, I suppose.”

Crowley blinks. “That’s creepy as fuck,” he says flatly.

If they’d had this conversation two years back, perhaps Aziraphale would have tried to excuse the action. As it is… they toss some peas to a kindly looking black duck at the back of the flock with pointedly pursed lips.

“... so you think they’ll be satisfied with just that?”

“Perhaps. Heaven never really sent another agent to Earth- to be honest with you, my dear, I rather wonder if we used to be, well. Understaffed, as it were.”

“Eh, could be.” He picks up a stone and flings it at the pond, smirking as it skips and nearly hits a duck. “Almost got him.”

“Dear, perhaps you should refrain from antagonizing the ducks again.” Aziraphale throws the last of the peas and shows the ducks their hands. Disappointed, they waddle away in search of some other spies to blackmail food off of. Aziraphale hums, then they miracle them into the paths of a Japanese and Russian spy duo who are currently making plans to run away to the former’s childhood home with their two dogs. Aziraphale then miracles them (the spies, not the ducks) safe travels and enough money to retire at the onsen they’re running away to.

“Doing good for good’s sake, angel?” Crowley murmurs, looking over their shoulder. 

“Any reason I shouldn’t, my dear?” Aziraphale turns around and freezes.

“Crowley,” they say softly, “don’t turn around, but I do believe that our audience has arrived.”

Crowley tenses but doesn’t turn around, much to Aziraphale’s relief. “Which ones?” he says, gritting his teeth in a panicked snarl.

“Sandalphon.” Aziraphale hazards another peek before ducking behind Crowley once more. “And Uriel.”

“Huh,” Crowley says, the forced nonchalance not quite taking away from the way his hands have clenched into fists. “Interesting combination.”

Aziraphale hums absently, trying to come up with a game plan. They can’t keep on throwing peas at the ducks, considering they’re all out of peas. And standing by the pond awkwardly won’t exactly relax them enough to truly pull this off…

Only one thing to do then.

They stick out their arm with a flourish. “Shall we go take a walk then,” they say rather loudly, “my dear  _ husband?” _

They can just make out the way Uriel grimaces and Sandalphon gags over Crowley’s shoulder. Even through the adrenaline shooting through them, they have to stifle a laugh.

And oh, perhaps it’s the way the corners of Crowley’s lips twitch up, mischievous and daring, or perhaps it’s the way he matches Aziraphale’s fervor with an overly dramatic “But of course,  _ husband,”  _ before snaking an arm through theirs, but something tells Aziraphale that they’re about to have quite a lot of  _ fun. _

They lead the two archangels on a merry chase through the park, blending with the crowds when they can just to laugh at Sandalphon and Uriel try to wade their way through it.

“D’you think we can get them to fall into the water?” Crowley whispers, hand squeezing Aziraphale’s arm gently.

It’s an offhand comment, but once the idea is put into Aziraphale’s head, there’s nothing more that they want to do. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Crowley whirls on them. “Ngk- wait,  _ really?” _

“Well, why not?” Aziraphale says, gamely marching forward. To Crowley’s credit, he doesn’t fall over. “Stalking us like this… it’s not the most  _ angelic  _ behavior, don’t you agree?”

“And besides,” they add, watching Crowley’s face light up like a slow sunrise, “It’s a rather hot day- I’m sure they’d appreciate a dip.”

With every word, Crowley’s grin has only grown, and now it borders on maniacal. “Stars above, angel,” he says, utterly thrilled. “You are the most wonderful bastard I’ve ever known!”

Aziraphale ducks their head to hide the blood that’s no doubt rushing up to their cheeks, but there’s no way they can suppress the wriggle of pleasure that, well, wriggles out of them. Bother that.

With a cough, they tug Crowley towards the Blue Bridge, noting Sandalphon and Uriel scrabbling after them out of the corner of their eyes.

“Targets in sight,” Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale suppresses a sigh- they can’t really disapprove of Crowley’s massive infatuation with that spy fellow, but is it  _ really  _ necessary to repeat information like that? No subtlety in that at all!

(You and I, dear reader, know that this is the height of hypocrisy.)

They reach the bridge, and for once, it’s blessedly (or, as you and I know,  _ miraculously)  _ uncrowded. Oh there are few people yes, but they’re rather quiet: the two girls giggling as they twine their hands, and an old man handing treats to his dog, and a photographer snap-snap-snapping his photographs of the river all provide a nice backdrop to the beautiful day.

It’s a shame they’re about to disturb that. 

“How are we going to do this, my dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, casting a surreptitious eye towards the archangels as they step onto the bridge. 

Crowley hums and peers over the edge. “Can angels walk on water?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the bridge.

Aziraphale frowns in thought. “Yes,” they say slowly, “But only if it’s Holy Water.”

Crowley grins. “Even better.”

Aziraphale looks at him. “What are you thinking of my dear?”

Crowley cracks his knuckles and gives them a lopsided smirk. “What do you say, angel,” he says, tilting his head, “to a little illusion?”

Aziraphale furrows their brows. “Go on.”

Crowley nods towards the river. “You said that angels can only walk on Holy Water. They don’t know that’s not Holy Water.”

Slowly, the pieces fall into place. “You… want us to send illusions of ourselves walking on water so that the archangels are forced to follow us?”

When Crowley nods, Aziraphale can’t help the smile that pushes at their cheeks. “Crowley,” they whisper, hanging on tighter to his arm, “that’s brilliant! Utterly brilliant!”

“Ah- er- ngk,” Crowley stutters, then coughs. “R-right, yeah, heh. That’s me. Brilliant.”

_ “Utterly _ brilliant,” Aziraphale repeats. They look over the river. “Plus, it could intimidate them as well, seeing  _ you  _ walk on water! Oh my dear, it’s such a great plan!”

Crowley looks away, but Aziraphale can see the way the tips of his ears turn red. Oh dear, did they embarrass him somehow? They didn’t say anything about being “nice” or “kind”- the poor dear did get a bit tetchy at names like that. So then what could they have said that made him blush so?

Crowley coughs again- perhaps Aziraphale should invest in lozenges. “R-right. I’m guessing you’re down for it, then?”

“Quite right!” Aziraphale says, hushed as can be. “Although… we should make sure the illusions are only visible to us and them. It would be difficult to explain to the humans after all.”

Crowley nods before discreetly pulling his hand up. “On the count of three, then.”

Aziraphale gathers their own hand. “One…”

“Two…”

“Three!”

They snap in unison, and three things happen at once.

One- Aziraphale and Crowley, or rather, illusions of themselves, appear on the water below.

Two- The illusions become invisible to the human eye, but stay visible to the rather baffled angel eye.

And three- They themselves become invisible to both the human and the angel eye.

“Huh,” Crowley says, looking down at himself. “Didn’t think of that.”

Aziraphale pats his arm. “I did, dear. Now, I do believe it’s time for us to ah- how do the humans say it? Lick back and relax.”

_ “Kick,  _ angel, it’s  _ kick.”  _ Saying that, however, Crowley does indeed relax. “Seriously, what is it with you and ‘licking’? This Freudian slip of yours is getting out of hand!”

Aziraphale shudders. “I’ll thank  _ you  _ not to mention that horrid man in my presence. Honestly, what nonsense! Was he one of yours?”

“Dunno,” Crowley murmurs, shrugging absently. He’s about to answer when his eyes seem to catch on something and he slowly grins. “Archangels at six o’clock, angel. You’re not going to want to miss this!”

Aziraphale turns around and gasps, delighted. Uriel and Sandalphon are standing on the edge of the bridge, no doubt ready to leap into the water.

“Oi!” someone calls. “You can’t be up there!”

It’s a rather belated and faulty thing to say, given that the Archangels are already up there, but that’s humans for you.

From this distance, they can see Uriel roll her eyes and Sandalphon scoff right before they step off the bridge. They can also see their shocked faces when their bodies go straight through the water.

“Wha-” Sandalphon splutters, hands flailing in the air. Uriel doesn’t fare any better: she keeps looking at the water in astounded confusion, which is quite difficult to do when you’re also trying to keep your head above water.

Beside them, Crowley rolls on the floor, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Ha!” he exclaims, breathless. “Ha! Idiots!”

“Q-Quite,” Aziraphale manages before they burst into laughter themselves. 

From there, it devolves into hysteria. Everytime Aziraphale thinks it’s over, they see the way Sandalphon’s lips splutter with bubbles, or the way Uriel’s eyes keep getting wider and wider until they seem to take up her whole face, and they’re off again, clutching at their knees to keep from falling.

The humans, bless their caring hearts, have of course joined this hullabaloo. Some futilely yell at the angels to swim to the shore- this leads to Sandalphon turning towards the right shore while Uriel gears up for the left and ends with them bonking their heads together quite comically. Others debate jumping in themselves to help save the archangels- even through their laughter, Aziraphale keeps a sharp eye out for them to make sure they don’t follow through. One person has the good sense to call the authorities, who run up to the bridge a good fifteen minutes later to fish the two unspeakably wet archangels out of the river.

By this point, Aziraphale and Crowley have relocated to a nearby bench, occasionally chuckling as Sandalphon bops Uriel on the head with his flailing and Uriel elbows him in the nose. 

-“Was that on purpose?” Crowley had asked, adjusting his glasses.

Aziraphale had sniffed. “I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s surprisingly vindictive.”-

Somewhere in the time it takes for the authorities to arrive, their illusions had snapped out of existence. They’re both still invisible, of course, but it’s more so they can be less bothered by the questions the police are asking. 

“Who d’you think is going to bail them out?” Crowley asks idly. A few feet away, Sandalphon’s eyes go wide with outrage as he’s cuffed.

“To be honest, I am surprised they aren’t trying to get out of this,” Aziraphale admits. “They could easily get out of this whole situation with a mere miracle, and yet…”

“...They’re not.” Crowley sniffs and leans in conspiratorially. “Reckon they’re trying to not use miracles?”

Aziraphale swallows. This close, they can smell the cologne behind Crowley’s ear, and it’s heady enough to make their head spin. “P-perhaps,” they say, coughing lightly. Bless the dear because he takes the hint and moves back, though Aziraphale does take his hand. 

“Why aren’t they using miracles?” Crowley asks, frowning out at the open water. His fingers interlock with Aziraphale’s, and they can’t help but smile. Even if it’s an absent action, it never fails to make Aziraphale think that Crowley is thinking of them.

“I don’t quite know,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “Maybe…”

Crowley turns back to them. “You have an idea, angel?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale runs their thumb across Crowley’s hand absently, thinking. “Perhaps… perhaps they don’t want their miracles to be tracked?”

Crowley frowns. “So much that they would rather be handcuffed? By  _ humans?” _

Aziraphale looks out onto the clear water. It ripples along, not a feature suggesting it had been so heavily disturbed a mere thirty minutes back. “I don’t know,” they say, squeezing Crowley’s hand again. “I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bet you guys didn't expect that ;)


End file.
